Hidden Pain
by MidnightsCry
Summary: Murdoc tires to deal with his problems on his own, though it doesn't seem to be working out quite like he would like. Contains Triggers: Self Harm, also contains strong language
1. Chapter 1

_Hi I hope you enjoy this, this is a story from , a good friend of mine from the site wrote it._

"Fuck," murmured a gruff voice in the darkness. Its owner fumbled for a light source, at last finding one in the form of a switch on the wall. Mismatched eyes –one scarlet, one dark- took a moment to adjust to the sudden harsh light. The Winnebago was a rather large mess – clothes strewn about, discarded papers littering the floor, various spent cigarettes and empty vodka bottles accompanying each other in a dizzying array of uncleanness…and of course, there was blood.

"F-f-fuck it," Murdoc Niccals reiterated, to no one but himself, clamping a hand firmly over the jagged slash just above his wrist. A glint of metal, and he spied the instrument he had just used to implement said incision, darkened with blood, and resting comfortably on his nightstand. He allowed himself a bitter smile toward the knife, muttering under his breath to the inanimate object. "You almost…fuck," he paused, closing clashing eyes tightly for a moment, until the sharp pain subsided.

"You almost ended it that time, Niccals," he managed to hiss through clenched teeth. Sitting down, hard on his bed, the bassist remained for a few minutes, head bowed hand still gripping tightly at the opposite wrist. "Although," he continued, in the stillness of the room, "I don't suppose it would have made a difference either way." Mentally wincing at his own last comment, he released his grip from his wrist. The bleeding had slowed down to a slow dribble and it still hurt like fuck. "Fucking Christ, I sound like one of those malcontent Goth Kids," he muttered. A short exhale and he opened his eyes halfway, gaze flicking to his wound and then back to the bloodied knife.

"You are going to ruin my life, dear," Murdoc said to the blade, setting his jaw to one side, "But as it's already ruined anyway…"

And he made another grab for the sharpened emotional crutch.

"Oh man, you look awful," Russel said, flipping his sunglasses up onto his forehead. He was practicing drumming on his knees seated in a lobby chair. The bassist breezed past him, dark-sleeved arms folded tightly across his chest, "Murdoc?" Russel tried again, sitting up slightly.

The addressed turned, eyebrows slightly uplifted. His eyes seemed tired- even more tired than usual, the drummer mused- and he himself didn't seem to be all there at the moment.

"Yeah Russ?"

Definitely not all there, "You okay man?" Russel was now standing up, drumsticks in his left hand.

"Wot? Oh. Yes. I'm great, just bloody great. You know?"

Russel nodded, slowly, not exactly believing the reassurance, "Uh-huh…"

"C'mon, Russel man. Don't you be ganging up on me t-t-too," the bassists' voice had lowered from an uncharacteristically-yet-nonchalant-cheery tone, to a deep growl, "I'm not in the fooking mood."

Russel flinched inwardly, "I'm not grillin' ya' muds, just concerned."

"Yeah well, I don't need your fucking pity," the bassist spat. He turned booted heel and continued down the hall, shoulders hunched slightly, arms tightening their grip around his body. The drummer watched him go, sighing quietly to himself. The Niccals was such a loose cannon. Show a little bit of concern and he'd throw it back in your face in the form of an extended middle finger.

Russel sat back down, setting his sticks on the table next to him. He put a hand on his chin thinking. Murdoc had problems, lots and lots of problems. But unlike the rest of the general population of the entire planet, he never spoke about them. The bassist was unique in that aspect, Russel supposed, in that he didn't feel the need to dump his problems on so-called friends. His responsibilities, sure, but Murdoc rarely-if ever-spoke about anything personal. From piecing together various bits of information, the drummer had come to the conclusion that most of Murdoc's problems stemmed from his childhood. Then again, wasn't that where most people's problems began?

He shook his head, picking up his drumsticks again. He began to beat out a pattern on his knees, frowning mildly, "Dropping beats like crazy," he muttered to himself. Russel sighed heavily, knowing that the Niccals and his elusive ways were distracting from concentration on quality drumming.

He paused, stark white eyes glancing idly in the direction the bassist had just walked to. Murdoc had problems, yes, and he kept those problems to himself. That was simply Murdoc's way. But, sometimes Russel wondered how deep these problems ran, and by exactly what means were Murdoc using in order to sort through them. But as Murdoc never said a word about his issues, there was probably an alternative he took to deal with them.

Another shake of his head and Russel turned a determined grimace to his drumming, pausing momentarily to flip his sunglasses back over vacant eyes.

Murdoc muttered to himself as he crossed the threshold into the café, heavy boots clunking on the well-worn title. "MC Grandmaster Twat indeed," he said to himself, throwing a glance over his shoulder. Russel was out of sight by now, out of mind a well, the bassist mused.

"Oh hey! Good morning, Murdoc," said a voice that was to cheerful for to early in the morning to belong to anyone with half a brain.

The Niccals turned his attention to the café, stopping to lean a hand against a counter top. Mismatched eyes narrowed slightly. The blue-haired keyboardist stared right back at him with his set of blank eyes, coffee mug in hand. Murdoc merely grumbled a reply, turning to the counter to scrounge up some coffee for himself, Black of course.

"Did'ja sleep well?" 2-D inquired further, blissfully unaware of the fact that Murdoc had very little patience at that moment.

The Satanist continued on his java hunt, scowling at the poor selection, "No I didn't," he responded tersely, "Where the fook is all the bloody coffee?"

2-D blinked over at the bassist, dazed eyes crossing slightly, "Oh I fink this is the last cup." He offered said mug to Murdoc, eyebrows slightly raised, "You want…?"

Murdoc paused for a moment, then snatched the mug out of the vocalists hand, suppressing the urge to splash him with the scalding liquid, that would be wasteful. He closed his mismatched eyes with a frown, taking an experimental sip.

"You're welcome," 2-D said cheerfully.

Murdoc grumbled in response, 2-D opened his mouth to say something else, but Murdoc interrupted him sputtering out coffee. "How much sugar did you put in this bloody thing, Stu-Pot?!" It had taken a few moments for the sickeningly sweet taste to register in his brain.

The vocalist seemed to think for a moment – but it was sort of hard to tell. Murdoc waited impatiently, jaw set, pouring the coffee into a nearby sink while 2-D was gazing up at the ceiling forefinger to his chin, "Um…let me fink…"

"Wotever, Face ache. It doesn't matter now. You've ruined my morning," Murdoc muttered, setting the mug down on the counter with a controlled 'slam'. "Even more than it already was, anyway," he added stalking off to a table, hands clenched at his sides. He sank down in a chair, almost lacking the energy to even kick a booted foot onto the tabletop. Arms folded across his chest, Murdoc leaned back with narrowed eyes, preparing himself for a full day of brooding.

2-D wandered over after a moment, munching on a granola bar, "Wot do you want, tosser?" Murdoc hissed, sinking lower.

The vocalist blinked a few times, sitting down across from the irritated Satanist, "Murdoc, is somefink bothering you?"

"Wot, other than your annoying self in my personal space? Not exactly," he growled sinking even lower.

"Come on, Murdoc," 2-D pleaded, lifting his left eyebrow slightly, "You c'n trust me, you know," he added, leaning forward.

The bassist couldn't help but chuckle at that. He quickly moved his foot off the table, sitting up and simultaneously slamming a fist onto the tabletop. "Let's get one thing straight, Stu-pot," Murdoc snarled, his voice lowering as he leaned in closer to the vocalist, clashing eyes narrowing, "I. Do. Not. Trust. Anyone."

2-D blinked rapidly at that, stammering, "b-b-but, Murdoc…"

"Nononono, 2-D. No one. Not you. Not anyone." He raised his eyebrows, sitting back with a nonchalant grin, "You see? Makes it e-easier that way."

The vocalist deflated slightly, his sunshiny-ness slowly disappearing, "Makes wot easier, ek'zactly…?"

Murdoc lifted an eyebrow, "Why, it makes it easier to tell your enemies apart from my allies, dullard." He paused, to kick his foot back onto the table, leaning back again, "If I don't trust anyone," he clarified slowly, "then everyone will by my enemy and the world is the safest place if you _know_ everyone hates you, rather than j-j-just guessing on about it."

"Makes the world a much more depressing place too," the singer responded.

"Well yes, 2-D, that's sort of the point."


	2. Chapter 2

"Now Noodle-chan," 2-D said slowly, "this….is a s _ee-minor chord_. Can you say _see-minor_?" To emphasis, the vocalist played the indicated chord on the keyboard. The ten year old guitarist looked at him incredulously, mimicking the chord on her axe.

2-D nodded, "Right, that's _see-minor_. _See. Mine. Or_."

"See mine or," the girl repeated slowly.

The keyboardist grinned, the nodding increasing drastically, "Right Right Right! Good, Noodle!"

With a slight eyebrow quick -2-D's head looked in danger of falling off because he was nodding so much- she smiled back, then said something in rapid Japanese.

"Um," 2-D's nodding ceased, "Ye…s?"

With a sigh of exasperation, Noodle repeated the phrase slowly, eyebrows raised, "See mine or," she added, then said the Japanese phrase again.

"Oh…I see," the vocalist nodded again, the grin returning.

"Fucking Christ, 2-D," Said a familiar scratchy voice, "Wot the fook're you wasting your time teaching that wasabi bitch English for? She gets along fine without it." Murdoc had the strange ability of suddenly "appearing" out of thin air. He did it so often, however, that his bandmates really didn't take notice of it anymore. When they had company over, well, that was different.

"Wasabi," Noodle said, eyebrows raised.

"Er, " 2-D responded to the bassist, not really sure what to say.

"N-now, now-now, if you want to make yourself useful," Murdoc added, tapping a heavy boot on the floor once, "you can teach her how to cuss a roadie out. Fuckin' idiots don't know how to set up microphones, I swear to Satan…"

"2-D-ankiki," she said, tugging on the vocalists sleeve. He glanced down to her, brow slightly askew. She said something in Japanese, nodding twice afterwards.

"What….?" 2-D began, but trailed off as Noodle walked away in the other direction, taking her guitar with her. Both men stared after the girl for a few beats, possibly on equal levels of confusion. They turned to each other, shrugging in unison. Murdoc spoke next.

"So how are things, Stu-Pot?"

2-D paused for a moment, watching the bassist shuffle through papers idly, his back turned to the singer. It was sort of strange for Murdoc to be asking 2-D anything about his life that didn't somehow loop back to a new method of torture. "Err…why d'you ask, Murdoc?"

The Satanists back stiffened slightly and he paused in his paper shuffling. Resuming, he half-growled, "Wot, can't I ask a simple question? You're so suspicious, tosser."

"Sorry," replied the keyboardist, still slightly wary of the others intentions, "I'm fairly alright, I guess."

"Uh-huh," came the response.

Losing a bit of his doubt, 2-D ventured further, idly playing a melody with his left hand. "Paula's cross wiv me again, you know, and she has this rilly bad habit of not telling me _why_ she's angry wiv me, so I can never fix it."

"Right."

"An'I _ask_ her and everyfing, about why she's mad at me, so she can't say I never ask."

"I see."

"But other than that, and the usual problems, I'm doing okay."

"Right."

A slight pause and then, "You're not paying any attention to me, are you?"

"None wotsoever."

2-D sighed, somewhat dejected, "Okay. Then how are _you_ , Murdoc?"

The bassist turned around at that, eyebrows slightly lifted. He had a few sheets of music clutched in his left hand, which was in somewhat of a tightening fist. "H-how am I" The vocalist nodded. "I'm absolutely terrible; Ta for asking, Stu-Pot." Murdoc shifted his gaze to the door, brow leveling as his expression took on a scowl. He started toward the exit, when 2-D's voice stopped him for a brief moment.

"W-wait," the vocalist stammered.

With a sigh, Murdoc turned around, "What?"

"Um, I was just… Murdoc, if y'ever need to talk about somefink… I'm always….I mean…" 2-D winced visibly at his inability to form a complete sentence, hand stopping his idle chords and key-plunking.

The addressed seemed unfazed by the sickeningly sweet (Much like 2-D's wasted coffee) almost-offer coming from the singer. "Uh-huh, I doubt I'll ever need to talk to anyone – let alone your dullard self – about anything, but I-I-I'll keep that in mind, Stu-Pot." Murdoc turned back around and stalked out the door.

2-D sighed slightly, blank eyes looking down to focus on his keyboard. After a slight hesitation, he continued plunking out a melody, in c-minor.

"We must remain logical, logical, logical," said a voice off the television.

"For fuck's sake, Stu-Pot – You're not watching that insipid rubbish that barely qualifies as a film again, are you?" Murdoc grumbled from the hallway, crossing over the room to stand near the blue-haired vocalist – who was indeed, watching _Dawn of the Dead_.

"Oi, Murdoc," 2-D said, dazed eyes flicking off the tv for a split second to the bassist, before gluing back to the screen, "I happen to like it."

"Tch. You would," Murdoc said, mismatched eyes darting to the screen.

"Are you insane?! No human being thinks like that-!" the movie continued.

The bassist's attention shifted back to 2-D, narrowing his left eye, "You know, the only reason I'm not burning this videotape right now is because of the misanthropic undertones of what this fellow here," he indicated toward the eye-patch wearing doctor on screen, "is saying."

The singer grunted slightly, either not believing the idle threat, or not paying attention. Either way made Murdoc a bit angrier then he already was. "Oi, why don't you watch Zombie or something? At least that one has some tits in it- oh wait, I forgot you're a fookin' poof, aren't you?" No really being in the mood for depression or anger at that moment, the bassist decided to taunt the blank-eyed vocalist instead, to get his mind focused on outwardly lashing out. That being the case, he allowed himself a small sadistic grin.

"Sshhh," the vocalist hissed, albeit gently. But that didn't really matter, Murdoc's almost non-existent temper boiled over. The proverbial fuse had ben lit and explosion was imminent.

"Well fuck me, Stu-Pot," the bassist growled in mock-surprise, over fury. He took a quick step over the singer , made a fist, and deftly punched the younger man's jaw.

2-D yelped, his head jerking backwards and slamming against the back of the sofa. Blank eyes widened slightly as he tried to stand up, in order to escape in the opposite direction. But Murdoc grabbed onto the front of the vocalist's shirt and smashed him across the face again, afterwards shoving him back onto the sofa. "Who the _fook_ do you think you are, you brainless cunt?!"

The bassist absently registered his attempt at keeping himself from being angry.

The singer whimpered slightly in response, bringing up his arms to cross at the wrists in front of his face, forming somewhat of a makeshift shield; a rather useless shield, being only composed of bones and muscle, skin and veins. Murdoc felt himself growing angrier by the second, his fury intensified by the simple fact that 2-D wasn't even trying to fight back, "Well!?" Murdoc grabbed the singer roughly by the collar, pulling him to his feet, "Say something, you simpering half-wit!"  
2-D lifted his face to stare at Murdoc , a pained look crossing his features. A few lines of crimson trickled down the left side of his face, their sources being located at the temple and corner of his mouth. The blood was surpassed by the absolute shattered look in blackened eyes, however the vocalists gaze locked shakily with the Satanist's.

"Say something, or I will fucking kill you," Murdoc said, his voice lowering.

"I'm sorry," was 2-D's quavered response.

A slight pause followed, after which the bassist shoved 2-D back into the sofa with a slight scoff, "Well, you should be." As he turned to leave the room, the singer curled up onto his side, dulled eyes staring blankly at the still-running videotape.

"Enjoy your film, Stu-Pot," Murdoc called over his shoulder.

"What have we done to ourselves…?!" the movie dialogue continued.


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: I still own nothing and make no money from this_

2-D sighed slightly, dabbing a bit of iodine over the cuts on the left side of his face. With a slight grimace –it stung, of course- he peered into the mirror, noticing with a dulled acceptance that his jaw was starting to swell. It was routine, after all- Murdoc would make some comment, 2-D would respond without thinking and Murdoc would throw some sort of blunt object into his face.

He scowled mildly at himself in the mirror, trying to figure out a way to make Murdoc stop hating him so much. Fighting back was the furthest thing from his mind- he didn't wish to fight the bassist anyway. Murdoc was his friend, and friends typically didn't wallop on each other. Except for Murdoc – that was just his way. That was simply how Murdoc was, and there was no way of getting around it.

The keyboardist gingerly screwed the cap back on the iodine bottle, taking careful measures not to spill. That would be wasteful : he'd most likely need the antiseptic later on anyway.

After capping the bottle, 2-D remained staring at himself in the mirror, painstakingly observing the bruises and small cuts. The bruises he didn't mind very much, but the cuts really hurt. Sometimes 2-D wished that Murdoc would at least have the decency to take off his rings before giving the vocalist a sound thrashing. He sighed again, turning to leave.

Russel walked in at that moment and 2-D quickly hid the iodine behind his back, "Oh, h-hey Russ…"

"Sup, Dee?" Russel nodded to the singer, moving over to the sink.

"Um, not much, rilly. I should be going; I'm going to see if I can teach Noodle some Eng-"

"Jesus Christ, what happened to your face, man?" The drummer interrupted, blank eyes widening slightly.

"Um, my face? N-notfing…" 2-D shifted the iodine bottle uneasily behind his back.

"2-D, don't try to hid the bottle," Russel said, eyes closing halfway as he lifted an eyebrow, "I can see it."

"Oi, Russel…Don't make such a big deal about it," 2-D said. He added, "It's just a little minor thing."

The American sighed heavily, placing a large hand on the singer's shoulder, "Listen 2-D," he said, "you can't keep letting Muds treat you-"

"I never said Murdoc did this."

"-like this." He withdrew his hand, staring at the vocalist with vacant eyes, "2-D who else besides Murdoc would do this to you? Everyone else loves you, man."

2-D didn't respond to that, he fiddled with the iodine bottle, which he had stopped hiding by then. Everyone loved him, true enough – except Murdoc, who hated him without justification. But as much as 2-D wanted Murdoc to love him as everyone else did, he had simply come to accept the fact that the bassist unconditionally hated him. Because that was simply the way Murdoc worked.

"Dee," Russel continued, slowly, "I know you don't want Murdoc to get in trouble, but seriously man. He's liable to kill you some day."

"I know," 2-D answered. His voice lowered a bit and he added , "But better me then him, right?"

The drummer paused for a moment, "2-D, you haven't talked with Murdoc about…. _that_ , have you?"

"Of course not."

Russel nodded, thoughtfully, "Good…you know, it ain't really our business, right?" He pronounced it _biddness._

"I know," the singer responded, "But-but I just wish-"

"I know, Dee. We all wish he'd get help for it," the American sigh heavily, poking at the vocalist in the shoulder with an extended index finger. "But don't let it get ya' to down. Muds won't even admit to it and we have no proof he even does anything-and even if we _did_ , you _know_ he's too damn proud to get help."

"Uh-huh," came the reply. He lifted his eyes from the iodine bottle and stared at the drummer blankly. "Ta, Russ," an attempt at the characteristic sunshiny smile was directed at the American, but it was somewhat weak – from the bruises and scrapes, but also because he didn't exactly feel like smiling at the moment.

"Don't mention it," Russel said with a tired grin, reaching up to rumple the keyboardist's hair.

"Russel-samaaaa…!"

Russel looked up from the percussion magazine he was thumbing through to see a Japanese girl burst into the room, mp3 hat securely on her head. She recklessly charged up to the American and jumped up onto him , scrambling to hide behind his head, arms latched around his neck.

"N-Noodle, what are you….?" Russel stood up, trying to pry the girl off him. She jabbered in her native tongue, staring at the doorway she had just burst in from, "Would you get off of-"

"FUCKING WASABI BITCH."

Noodle yelped, ducking her head. Russel turned towards the doorway, half-scolding and half-surprised at the obviously enraged Satanist. The Niccals was darkly staring at Noodle, hands clenched at his sides. He advanced upon the drummer and the guitarist, mismatched eyes still fixated on the latter.

"Murdoc, what have I told you about calling-"

"'Get. Out. Of . My. Way."

Russel blinked rapidly, shifting so that he could wrap a protective arm around Noodle, as she clung to his neck from the side. "What could Noodle have possibly done to piss you off so m-"

Much, he was going to say.

"f-f-f-f-f, Fuck off Russ," Murdoc interrupted growling. Clashing eyes flickered to the American, but returned to the guitar player, narrowing faintly. "This is between me and the girl."

"Tasukete, Russel-haku," Noodle murmured, tightening her grip around his shoulders.

"Jesus, man – what did she do?" Russel was growing concerned. Murdoc constantly beat up on 2-D, and often verbally abused Noodle – he claimed she couldn't understand what he was saying anyway, so it didn't matter- but it was an odd thing when the bassist was anger at the girl to the point of violence.

"Sh-she scratched up me bloody record," the Satanist growled, fists clenching even tighter.

"Nemohamonai, nemohamonai," Noodle half-yelled, glaring at the Satanist, "Wasabi-wa inosento desu! Russel-sama, hontou…!" She continued babbling in Japanese at the two, repeating the phrase 'nemohamonai' over and over. It took Russel a few moments for this to all sink in, and he eventually yelled over Noodle's feverish denials.

"Murdoc-She's- only a girl!"

Noodle obediently quieted down as the drummer raised his voice, although she probably didn't know what he was saying. Murdoc started at Noodle for a few more seconds, then turned his gave to the American. A look of gradual understanding accompanied with self-loathing crossed his features, "I…. f-fuck," the bassist muttered. He turned on his heel and quickly exited.

"Murdoc-san okay?" Noodle asked the drummer, worry overriding the anger and fear formerly in her eyes.

Russel smiled tightly to the girl, shaking his head slowly, "I dunno Noodle-chan….I dunno."


	4. Chapter 4

"What the _fuck_ is wrong with you, Niccals?" Murdoc slammed his fists against the outside wall of Kong Studios, feeling a tinge of satisfaction with the flood of pain that the action resulted in. He stood for a few moments, in somewhat diagonal stance: palms pressed against the wall, head slightly bowed, legs bracing themselves.

"Sweet Satan," he murmured to himself, mismatched eyes narrowing at the ground, "Maybe there really _is_ something wrong with me."

Murdoc turned then, to lean his back against the wall. He closed his eyes with a sigh, facing upward. Arms folded over his chest, he balanced on his heels, his legs still bracing against the wall at a diagonal angle. He tried to clear his thoughts long enough so he could think about- just anything, at the moment. First, he needed to stop thinking about everything, and just leave his mind blank, so he could process one thought at a time, slowly.

"That," he said carefully to himself, "can probably be placed under overreacting. Russ is right; she's just a little kid… and I was ready to smash her face in. Christ." He opened his eyes, staring at the midday sun. "That is really not good. Shit. I don't want to feel this way," he continued, his voice lowering, "I don't like this."

He noticed that a few clouds had gathered off in the distance and were slowly moving their way toward the studios. With a tug at the hem of his sleeve, Murdoc shifted again to lean one booted foot against the wall, his knee perpendicular to the ground. He fiddle with the sleeve's edge for a little while longer, suddenly wishing he had something sharp, "I fooking don't like this," he repeated, eyes lowering to the ground again. He closed them with a frown, trying to force the ideas of slicing himself open away from his head.

 _I don't need this right now_ , he thought to himself, _I'm stronger than that. It was just a fucking mood thing on my fault. Noodles probably already forgotten about it, or she's just chalked it up to me being the sadistic cunt everyone knows I am._

"Jesus fuck," the bassist muttered closing his eyes more tightly, "I don't _want_ to be like this."

He waited for a few more seconds, trying to will the thoughts away. But the thoughts refused to be pushed onto the proverbial back burner and only intensified by tenfold every millisecond the Satanist didn't act on them. "F-f-f, fuck," he opened his scarlet eye partially staring at nothing in particular, "I'm not in control anymore, a-am I?"

 _Don't be such a sodding idiot_ , his mind yelled back, _of course you're in control. It's not as if a fooking pocketknife can take over your contemptible existence. The only things you're addicted to are fags, vodka, women and Satan. Everything else is addicted to you. You can break free any fooking time you want._

"Then why the hell can't I put it out of my head?" Murdoc asked himself. The other end of his internal conversation didn't respond, most likely because it knew the answer and so did Murdoc.

"Fuck. I don't like this."

Murdoc avoided seeing 2-D, Russel, or even Noodle on his way to his Winnebago. He debated for a few moments over if he should have even gone anywhere near the carpark, as he knew what he would do to himself once within the confines of the Winnie. But it had started to rain, so he went inside the Studios to keep from getting soaked and everywhere else in the Studios, save the Winnebago, he would come into contact with someone else, and he wasn't exactly in the mood for visiting.

So, he slipped around the corners and took obscenely out-of-the-way routes to the carpark, to guarantee he didn't have to see anyone. Satan would be merciful if he didn't have to contend with crazed fan girls- wouldn't that make a lovely cover story? Murdoc mused.

He knew that he must have looked physically ill, or at least mentally unstable. The insensitive twats down at the Sun would probably put up some story about him being back on speed.

But Satan must have been particularly pleased with Murdoc that day- possibly for giving 2-D such a sound thrashing earlier, he supposed- because there were no fan girls in the lobby, no Russel in the hallway, no 2-D in the tv room, no Noodle-

"Murdoc-san?"

The bass player tensed, staring longingly down the hallway – the carpark was so close. Only about five meters away- and- beyond that – the Winnebago. So Close. He could just- he could pretend he didn't hear the guitarist, and just keep moving toward the carpark, toward the Winnie, toward solace.

"Yeah, Noodle?" Murdoc turned around, putting on his best non-threatening smile, which wasn't actually all that non-threatening.

"Anata-wa okay desu ka?" Noodle watched the bassist carefully, and he noticed that she looked rather concerned. Maybe she understood that Murdoc wasn't doing alright after all. Maybe that's what she was asking, since he really had no idea what she said other than 'okay'.

"Uh. Yeah, I'm fine, Noodle," Murdoc said, nodding.

She looked at him doubtfully, but nodded as well, "Hai, Hai, Mudroc-san?"

"Yessss, wot?" Murdoc glanced quickly toward the door to the carpark. _So close_ He looked back to the guitar player, who stared back, thoughtfully for a moment.

"Ashikarau," she said, with a slight bow. Murdoc lifted an eyebrow, distracted from the Winnebago for a moment.

"Um, y-yeah. Thank you , I-I-I think." He paused for a second, then turned and continued toward the doorway.

Noodle called after him again, "Murdoc-san!"

With an aggravated sigh, he turned, " _What?"_

"Wo an ni, Murdoc-san," Noodle said cheerfully, then turned and skipped down the hall, humming to herself.

"Wotever that meant," he muttered to himself, spinning on his heel. He had already wasted too much time, too much time, too much time. But the Winnebago was _so_ close….He pushed open the door to the carpark and suddenly found the energy to almost jog towards the caravan.

"2-D aniki, kenban," Noodle said, pointing to the vocalist's keyboard.

"My Piano, right." He nodded, scribbling something down in a music lined manuscript paper notebook. Just little random thoughts and such, most of them unrelated to each other. At the moment, he was jotting down how he figured Japanese things were spelled phonetically, in English letterings –romanjii, Noodle called it- and their English equivalents. Somewhere on the page there were a few lines of non-rhyming poetry, which even 2-D himself was confused over their meaning, as he had written it while fairly doped up on painkillers.

"Um…how 'bout your guitar?" He pointed with the end of his pencil to the indicated axe.

She nodded, "Ereki, Watashi-no ereki desu."

"Oi, slow down," 2-D scrambled to write down misinterpreting Noodles sentence for a full name of the guitar.

Noodle apparently understood his dilemma, for she rolled her eyes slightly and took a few steps toward him, reaching up to pull the notebook away. "Iie, kore-wa ereki desu. Ereki," she added slowly, "Ereki."

"Ohhh, I see," 2-D nodded dumbly, he did not see at all.

The guitarist shook her head slowly, handing the notebook back to him. She said something in Japanese, then settled herself down on the floor of the sound room, picking up a martial arts magazine. 2-D assumed that meant that their mutual lesson was over for the day. He nodded in particular, eyes unfocusing- even more so then usual.

"2-D aniki," Noodle said after a few moments – or it could have been longer; 2-D really wasn't paying attention to the time when he was spacing out. He blinked down at her, titling his head to one side slightly.

"Yeah, Noodle?"

The girl paused for a few seconds, setting her delicate jaw, "Murdoc-san okay?"

2-D blanched, "Y-yeah I fink so." He nodded, then taking on a slightly determined look, "Yeah he's fine."

"Sou ka," Noodle said, softly. She pointed toward the bandage over 2-D's left temple, eyebrows slightly raised and asked a question.

"Um, I'm fine. It's not a big deal rilly," 2-D half lied. The cuts themselves didn't really sting anymore, but every time Murdoc attacked the vocalist like that, he couldn't help but feel a little disappointed. He opened his mouth to add on that thought, but his mind promptly switched gears when he thought he heard a sound coming from the roof, "Wot's 'at…?"

Noodle blinked twice, "Ame," she said.

2-D quirked his brow slightly, "I have no idea what you jus' said."

The guitarist sighed heavily, standing up. She tugged on 2-D's hand for him to follow her and they went out of the sound room to a nearby window. "Kore-wa ame desu," she said, pointing out. It was raining rather heavily, creating a greyish fog all around the studios.

"Ohhh," 2-D said, nodding slowly. "That's rain." He jotted these new words down in his notebook as well, frowning slightly, "Bloody hell, I hope my room doesn't get flooded again," he added, as an afterthought, as his room was located in the basement of Kong Studios. Dazed eyes shifted up from the notebook to stare out the window. He lowered the manuscript paper and pencil to his side, noticing absently that Noodle clung a bit tighter to his hand.

"2-D-Aniki afraid?" she asked, in broken English

The vocalist shifted his gaze down to the guitarist, smiling affably, "Of the rain? Not at'oll, Noodle-chan."

She returned the smile, giving him a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek, "Noodle-chan go Russel-haku," the girl said skipping off to her surrogate older brother.

2-D watched her go, still smiling. The grin faded slowly, however, as he returned his blank gaze to the window, "Of somefink else…? Well, that's a diff'rent answer entirely," he said to the rain outside.


	5. Chapter 5

2-D nodded along to his keyboard-dominated techno CD, headphones securely clamped over his ears, as not to disturb Murdoc with 'that technology-dependent strawberry bubblegum shite'. The vocalist idly jotted down some notes in the music-lined paper, about nothing in particular. He tapped the end of his pencil to his lower lip, once, thinking. Sticking his tongue out the corner of his mouth, he leaned forward to write something new- when the power promptly went out.

The music continued, as batteries powered it, but the lights were completely gone. 2-D whimpered slightly, tapping the eraser rhythmically, idly, against the paper. He tried tapping the pencil to his lower lip again, to see if it somehow acted as a lightswitch – but to no avail. "Lovely," the keyboardist murmured to himself, hitting 'stop' on his CD player. He set the headphones aside, stood up, and groped his way along the wall on the hallway. The only lights were those coming from the exit signs plastered near every escape route and the dim gray-blue from the rainy outside world.

He frowned, gently making his way toward the café - or at least where he _thought_ the café was. Everything looked so different without any lights on. One hand was kept on a wall just in case.

2-D was about to round the corner into what he was pretty sure was the café, when a harsh flashlight beam flared directly into his face. "Fucking….!" He recoiled, shielding his eyes with a hand – the hand that wasn't plastered to the wall. Dazed eyes peered out under the hand-shielded, to see who was recklessly brandishing the flashlight.

"Oop, sorry Dee," an American voice murmured deeply.

"Oi, Russel," 2-D said, blinking a few times. He brought the hand down from his eyes, staring blankly away from the flashlight until his eyes were able to focus again, "Wot's going on?"

"Power outrage, apparently," Russel's voice responded. 2-D blinked twice, having regained control of his sight over the incessant multicolored dots that had flooded his vision when the flashlight attacked. He shifted his gaze to where the drummer's voice was coming from inside the café. There were a few candles lit, and in the dim light 2-D could see a larger number of unlit candles, as well as matchbooks and a few Zippos. Otherwise, the café looked fairly as it always did- except in the dark.

The vocalist lifted his eyebrows, impressed with Russel's preparation. "You knew there was going t'be a power outage or somefink, Russ?" he asked, entering the threshold to the café, finally taking his hand off the wall, placing it on the counter edge. He shifted his vacant gaze to the American, who had by then returned to lighting the candles.

"Uh-huh, well," he said, pausing to mutter as one of the matches went out before he got a chance to press it to a candle wick, "Noodle told me that it was raining and when it rains like that – hand me a lighter, would ya'? – it usually thunders an' shit. And – thanks- when there's thunder, there's usually lighting, and lightning usually means power outages."

2-D nodded slowly, eyebrows still raised, "I never fought you as a worrier, Russ."

"Somebody has to do it, ya' dig?"

The singer nodded again, producing his zippo from his pocket. He struck it to life, and went along helping the drummer light candles ,"How long d'you fink it'll be out for?" He asked, after a few moments.

"Depends, really. They all down at the power plant – or whatever the hell you Brits call it- are really the ones you should be asking. If it doesn't come back on in a few minutes, we'll go down to the next building down the road and see if their lights are off too. If they are, we can either sit here and wait, or," Russel said, lighting the last of the candles, "we could go down to the power plant and complain until they put the damn lights back on."

2-D watched the drummer in awe, in the candlelight, "How do you know so much about this kind of stuff, Russ?"

The other shrugged faintly, closing the Zippo with a small 'clink' sound.

"Oh wait, it's cos of the…. What do you call it, Great Blackouts, or somefink, in New York?" he nodded wisely.

The American chuckled mildly, "That was only once, 2-D. In seventy-seven. I was like, three."

"Ohhh," 2-D said, slowly. He paused for a few seconds, placing his lighter back in his pocket, "Then you must have a very good memory of somefink, right?"

"Dee, now I'm getting one of your headaches," Russel said, grinning faintly in the dim light.

"Sorry," the keyboardist responded, leaning his back against the counter edge. Vacant eyes flicked behind him quickly; he had to make sure he didn't accidently catch his hair on fire by means of the nearby candles. Murdoc had lit the blue locks on numerous occasions, sometimes going as far as to meld them together in hastily done dreadlocks.

"Where's Noodle, by the way?"

"She should be around here someplace," Russel replied, bending over slightly to peer under the table. 2-D followed suit, ducking to look under the table as well. Sure enough, the Japanese guitarist was seated on the floor, legs in front of her, a mini tv clutched in her hands. The soft blue glow of the hand-held television illuminated her face slightly. She turned to smile broadly at the singer and drummer in turn.

"Ohayo, 2-D-aniki, Russel-Sama."

"Er," 2-D blinked under the table at Russel, "Wot's she doin'..?"

"Looking to see if they're reporting anything about the blackouts on the news, prob'ly," Russel said, beaming., "Is that what y'er doin', Noodle?"

"Pockettu Monstaa!" the girl exclaimed, showing the drummer the electric mouse-themed cartoon program on her mini tv set.

"Oh," Russel said, deflating. 2-D stifled a giggle, apparently Noodle didn't take after her surrogate brother in all respects.

"Okay," Russel said to the Japanese guitar player, "Do you understand, Noodle-chan?"

She nodded slowly, "Go get Murdoc-san," she said slowly. Her nodding increased, "Murdoc-san! Winnebago," she pointed to the carpark.

Russel nodded at the girl, glancing sidelong to the blue-haired singer. 2-D shifted his vacant gaze to meet the drummer's stark white eyes, arching a thick eyebrow slightly. The only one out of the three who would be able to successfully drag Murdoc out of the Winnebago was the guitarist; 2-D had been avoiding Murdoc ever since earlier in the morning when he'd been smashed across the face and Russel got frustrated to easily with the bassist. Noodle seemed like the prime choice for the job, since Murdoc couldn't bring himself to physically harm her and Noodle wasn't very easily put off by Murdoc's obstinacy. She didn't understand what he was saying anyway.

The American placed a commando-style helmet on top of his head, giving Noodle the go-ahead. She jogged merrily through the carpark to the Winnebago, happy to help her adoptive brothers out. 2-D placed a helmet of his cerulean-haired head, except –

"2-D, why are you wearing a salad bowl?" Russel quirked a brow at the keyboardist.

"I should ask th' same about you," 2-D replied, eyes darting back and forth between the drummer and the departing guitarist.

"Well, no you shouldn't, because this," Russel quipped pointing to his helmet, "is _not…._ a salad bowl."

2-D blinked once, "You mean," he said slowly, "I've been putting my salad in a helmet for six months and no one told me?"

The drummer tried unsuccessfully to hide his smile, "We all thought it was funny," he said mildly, focusing his attention to Noodle, who was banging loudly on the door to the Winnie.

Curled up in a half-moon on top of his bed, the Satanist stared with unfocused eyes at the defaced arm in front of him. It was dark in the Winnebago – Darker than usual anyway. He had opted to keep all the lights off and merely sit in the dark alone with his thoughts, his anguish and his knife.

Clashing eyes had eventually come accustomed to the darkness and he could make out the shape of his left arm displayed before him, sleeve rolled up to mid-bicep. Already scarred and mangled, he inside of his forearm had a few new incisions –so new in fact , that they were still leaking red. He frowned dazedly, forcing his eyes to focus for a moment on his handiwork. It only worked for a second though –they soon snapped back into ambiguity, as staying attentive for too long was far too fatiguing for the agonized bassist as the moment.

As if he was simply observing someone else from the outside, the Niccals slowly brought the opened pocketknife –clenched in his right hand- to the inside of his left forearm, tapping an unmarked area of his skin with the flat edge of the knife for a few moments. "Th-this is it," he said hoarsely, "because what? Because I'm too much of a f-fucking pussy to end it all?" The bassist paused to swallow thickly, suddenly aware of how much his hand was shaking and how difficult it was to see. He paused, waiting to see if the other end of his internal conversation would pipe up. It did not.

"That's it then," he murmured to himself, "that's the answer? Jesus fucking Christ…" Mismatched eyes shut, and he tried to concentrate on the individual throbs of each slash, unable to pick out how many there were by using his unsteady gaze. He opened his left eye slightly, just enough to watch himself- from the outside- flip the blade so the sharp edge was pressed against the skin. He braced himself weakly, pressing the instrument harder onto his flesh-

"Murdoc-saaaaan!" a girl's voice sounded from somewhere far away.

Murdoc blinked his open eyes twice, jerking the knife away – and as a result, snagging it on the skin. "Shit," he murmured, both eyes opening to observe the slowly thickening crimson line across previously unmarred flesh.

"Murdoc-san!" the voice continued, accompanied now by a dull, faraway thudding sound.

The Niccals absently wondered if the thudding was in time to his own pulse – to the throbs he felt along his arm were melding together with the faraway thudding, turning into some dreamlike dub beat.

"Murdoc-san, Murdoc-san!"

"Fuck," the bassist half growled, jolting from the outside and returning to himself. In doing such, he was suddenly aware of the searing pain on the inside of his left arm. With a sharp intake of air, he sluggishly shifted into a sitting position, right hand clamping over the freshest wounds. He directed his gaze toward where the thudding sound was coming from – the door, he realized, "God fuck it," he mumbled.

"Murdoc-saaaan, door open!" a young voice called.

"Bloody Christ," Murdoc muttered to himself. He called out to the guitarist at the door, "What is it, sweetheart?"

The response was muffled, but that really made no difference, as it was all in Japanese. "Bollocks," the Satanist growled, rolling the sleeve back down to his wrist. He flinched as the cloth rubbed up against the wounds on his arm, but he reminded himself that as soon as he shooed the girl away he'd be back at peace with his emotional crutch.

He stood and stiffly made his way to the door, feeling his arm scream in agony with every movement the sleeve took against the cuts. He flung the door open with his right hand, putting on a careful scowl. "Wot do you want, Noodle?" He paused, realizing that he sounded very tired. "I'm kind of in the middle of something, if you catch my drift…?"

But the girl only jabbered something he couldn't understand and grabbed onto his right hand, yanking him down the steps of the Winnebago and across the carpark. Bewildered, and still to dazed to struggle, he obediently followed Noodle over to two awaiting band members. Murdoc blinked, also realizing in addition to sounding tired, he felt exhausted. "Russel, wot's this all about? And Stu-Pot – why do you have a salad bowl on your head?"

The American somberly removed the offending bowl from the zombie-fiend's head, frowning slightly. "Murdoc, we havin' some kind of electrical failure over here, the lights an' shit ain't workin' – although it probably don't affect you, as the Winnebago don't run on Studio power-"

"I had the lights off," the bassist interrupted simply.

"Uh," Russel and the singer exchanged glances, but the latter broke away to poke at Noodle mildly, who whispered something in hushed Japanese. The drummer looked back to the Satanist, "Anyway," he said, blank eye narrowing faintly, "I'm gonna go down to the distributor an' check it out. 2-D's gonna stay here in case it comes back, and Noodle-"

"Noodle go Russel-sama!" the girl chirped, bouncing alongside the dazed vocalist.

"Noodle-chan scared kurai,"she stage-whispered to the singer. 2-D gave a slight shrug to the American, eyebrows knit.

"Okay hun," Russel smiled tiredly at the guitarist, before turning his ghostly gaze back at Murdoc, who simply watched all this go on around him. He wasn't really paying much attention anyway, and was anxious for whatever 'planning' the group was doing to be over, so he could return to the confines of his caravan.

"So Muds, do you wanna come with Noodle and myself, or stay here with Dee?"

"I'd like to go back inside my Winnie, if that's alright with you, O Great Planer of outings," Murdoc growled.

Drummer and singer exchanged glances again, "Umm," Russel said slowly, gaze flicking back to Murdoc, who stared impatiently, "I'd rather you stayed in the Studios, in case we try calling and Dee is unconscious or something, you know?"

Murdoc gave a ragged sigh, glancing back toward his Winnebago. His arm was beginning to grow numb from the pain. He glanced skeptically at the American quipping, "Is Stu-Pot _ever_ conscious when you need him to be?" The further his point, he growled at the vocalist, being too far away to smack him – and possibly even lacking the energy to do so. He sighed again, this time defeated air, "Yeah sure, I'll bloody well stay inside the Studios, alright?"

Russel nodded, "Alright, C'mon Noodle," he called to the girl, holding out his hand. She exclaimed something in Japanese and gave the bassist and the singer hugs before latching onto the drummer's oversized hand. The two made their way over to one of many cars in the park and strapped themselves in. "Don't do anything too fatal to him while we're one, Muds," Russel half-joked, starting the engine.

"Fook off, Russ," Murdoc snarled, waving somewhat good-naturedly with his right hand. His left arm was still throbbing horribly, and he wished for time to speed up so he could run back to his Winnebago and inspect the damage, as well as finish what he started. Drummer and guitarist sped off, the latter whooping excitedly in rapid-fire Japanese.

The Niccals waited for a few moments, until they were out of sight. "Well," he said, turning back toward the Winnebago, "have fun, Stu-Pot."

2-D's voice called after the bassist with a slightly astonished tone, "B-but you tol' Russ 'at you'd-"

"Ye'h, well I lied. You should know that by now, dullard – I lie." He continued toward the Winnie, scowling at the utter absurdity of the fact that it was so far away.

"Murdoc, come on –" 2-D suddenly was behind Murdoc –had he been so out of it that he didn't even hear the vocalist approach? – grabbing onto his arm with an outstretched hand. It was enough that the singer had actually had the never to _touch_ the bassist – but he had also wrapped his talented fingers around the left arm, the wounded arm.

Murdoc's flesh crawled; his muscles ached; his nerves screamed; his brain detonated. He wanted to break down and cry out against the utter agony that he was experiencing –no sleeve-induced irritation could even be anywhere close to the kind of pin he was feeling. He wanted to run back inside his Winnebago and slice and slice and slice, so that the pain 2-D had unwittingly afflicted would be so very small in comparison. But more than anything, he wanted to take that knife and gouge out the vocalists fingernails. So he did the next best thing.

"You absolute _cunt_ ," Murdoc hissed, punching 2-D hard with his right hand. The singer stumbled backwards, clutching at where Murdoc had hit him – pale hands clasped over his nose, dazed eyes going wide and crossing lightly.

"Wh-wh-What?!"

Murdoc lapped the vocalist roughly across the face, afterwards shoving him to the ground of the carpark. He clenched his fists – both fists, staring down at the singer in a blind rage. As he clenched his left hand, he was vaguely aware of how the action caused the throbbing to increase as the muscles tensed, forcing more blood to run through the slashes and cuts. He was also absently aware that some blood running down his arm to collect at his hands, mixing with the singers at his knuckles.

"So you want to play, 2-D? You want to pull me back?" he advanced upon the singer, who was seemingly frozen with fear. "You want to psychoanalyses me behind me back and make like I don't notice? You want to be concerned with my problems? You want to act concerned about my problems?" Murdoc absently noticed that his voice was rising in pitch. "You want to berate me for not being perfect, you want to destroy me for having a flaw?" He kicked the singer harshly in the ribs, feeling justified when his victim cried out and attempted to back away, still on the ground of the carpark. "You want to pull me back, don't you? You want to pull me back, and away from everything – away from everything, away from her?" The bassist slowly came to realize that he wasn't even talking to 2-D anymore. He quickly switched back so that the singer wouldn't catch on as well.

"I say, fuck you, Stu-Pot," Murdoc snarled, kicking the other again with a steel-toed boot. While the singer recoiled in pain, the Satanist fell upon him, pinning him to the ground with his right arm. He used the left to pummel the vocalist in the face, feeling satisfied at every whimper, every blood spurt – he was spilling blood other than his own and it felt fulfilling. And for the first time in a long time, he wasn't even concerned with 2-D fighting back. After a few well-pained pushes, Murdoc rolled off the singer and stood, dull aware of the slowly encompassing pain shooting up and down his left arm.

He stood for a few moments, clashing eyes narrowing at the beaten singer. "Fuck you," he repeated his voice considerably lowered. The other merely stated up with blank eyes, blood smeared across his face. His nose was leaking claret, but he didn't even bother to cover it with a hand. He merely half-sat on the ground, staring at the bassist with that near-shattered expression. "F-f-f, Fuck you," Murdoc said again, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. Without waiting for a response, he turned and stalked the remaining meter or so to his Winnebago and slammed the door behind him.

Moving over to the back room, he half-sat, half-fell on the bed, mismatched eyes staring at the blood-soaked knuckles of his left hand _. I wonder,_ he thought idly, as he began to roll up the sleeve, _how much of this blood is mine and how much of it is Stu-Pots…._


	6. Chapter 6

"Mn," 2-D grunted slightly, wincing at the sting he felt as he placed an iodine-treated bandage over a cut on his right cheek. He was sitting in the middle of the floor across from the blank tv screen, headphones clamped over his ears. The electricity had been out for about an hour after Russel and Noodle had left, and the darkness was spreading fairly quickly as night approached. Murdoc hadn't been out of his Winnebago since he stormed off and 2-D was slightly thankful for that – the bassist always tended to be overly sensitive after executing a beating, for whatever reasons.

With a slight sigh, the singer capped the iodine bottle and set if off to the side with the bandages. He brought his legs up to his chest, wrapped his gangly arms around them and rested his right cheek on his knees, pausing a few times to make sure he didn't irritate the bandaged cut. He closed his eyes halfway, staring off into nothing, the music droning on in his ears.

His mind began to wander after a while, as it was apt to do – he thought of paint and records, of candles and organs, and perhaps even painted organs playing records with candles on them. But no matter what direction his addled brain drifted in it always drove back to the satanic bassist. 2-D idly wondered what Murdoc had been talking about when he had said that he wouldn't be kept away from "her." He figured that it really wasn't any of his business – or _biddness_ , as Russel's voice warning reminded in his head- but it still didn't bother him any less.

More importantly, the keyboardist wondered over why Murdoc had been so angry in the first place. True enough, 2-D rarely touched the bandleader – it was just the way things worked, just the way things were, like so many things involving the bassist – but even the fuzzy-brained vocalist could see that the way the Satanist had reacted was a bit too harshly, even for him.

"Fook, it's dark in here," a voice growled from somewhere near the threshold between the room and the hallway. 2-D released his legs, sending them straight out in front of him as he turned his head slightly toward the sound. He placed his hands behind him, palms down, for support.

"There you are, Stu-Pot," Murdoc nodded slightly to the singer, his inverted cross glinting faintly in the dim light. 2-D hid the iodine bottle and the bandages behind him, nodding in response.

"Hey Murdoc…"

The bassist walked over to 2-D and nudged the singers elbow slightly with a toe, 2-D winced faintly, partially because his arm hurt a little from when Murdoc had hi pinned down and partially because he had been kicked with that same boot a little more than an hour prior. "How's your headache coming along, Tosser?" The keyboardist absently noticed that Murdoc was considerably more chipper than he was when Russel and Noodle had left, as well as the fact that he was ignoring 2-D's cuts and bruises blatantly.

"Er, s' painful, like always," the vocalist said slowly, dazed eyes carefully watching the bassist. Murdoc leaned over at the waist and roughly mussed up 2-D's hair with his left hand, grinning widely.

"In'nat a shame?" 2-D cringed as the seemingly playful action made his constant migraine about six times worse. The bassist straightened himself, the grin broadening slightly, taking a malicious tint. "So th' powers not back on yet, I gather?"

"N-no," the singer murmured, rubbing fingertips to his templets. "It was on for about a minute, but it went right back off again and hasn't come back since." Murdoc wasn't paying attention, however, as 2-D could plainly see, even in the dim light. The vocalist frowned slightly, tilting his head to get a better look at the bassist. "Wot's wrong….?"

"Er," Murdoc seemed to be searching for words, clashing eyes slightly wide. "You 'ave some, uh, ah….blood…in your hair."

2-D paled noticeably, feeling himself go cold. Blood was in his hair? He had stopped bleeding about half an hour ago, hadn't he? Dazed eyes, slightly widened, flicked to the bassist left hand – but Murdoc had that hand hidden behind his back. The singer suddenly felt somewhat sick. He shakily lifted a hand and ran it through his hair, locking his eyes on the bassist face.

Murdoc gave him a tight smile, "There's not that much, dullard." He paused, "It's probably from your nose or something. I think I got a little on my hand, too." 2-D cringed. "So I'm just gonna go to th' loo and wash up, awright?" Without waiting for an answer, the bassist turned and stalked down the hallway. As he turned the corner, 2-D thought he heard the boot's speed quicken a little.

The singer remained sitting on the floor for a few moments, staring at the blood smudged on his fingertips. He had stopped bleeding by then…hadn't he? Rubbing his fingers together, he turned his vacant gaze toward where the bassist had just left a few moments ago. With a slight sigh, 2-D stood. He slowly made his way toward the studio's loo, mind set on cleaning the blood off his fingers and out of his indigo locks. As he walked, he ran a few tentative fingers through the red-tinged area of his hair.

" _Fuck it_ ," Murdoc hissed, slicing deeply into his arm with his pocketknife. He had brought the knife along with him from the Winnebago so he'd be able to threaten 2-D with it and get a few laughs. He was in the mood for a bit of fun, to get his mind off what he had done to his left arm about an hour and half prior. But apparently, he hadn't even cleaned up properly after turning the knife onto himself following giving the singer a sound thrashing.

"Fuck it fuck it fuck it fuck it _fuck_ -" he paused here, gritting his teeth as he made a hurried incision, _"- it."_ Gasping slightly, the Niccals dropped the darkened knife into the sink, clashing eyes shutting tightly as he gripped his now-free right hand over the left wrist. Soon the rushing in his ears had halted, and all he heard was the sound of his ragged breathing, and the blood dripping slowly into the stillness. Drip. Drip. Drip.

"Goddammit," the bassist rasped, feeling the blood ooze between his fingers. "Now he knows, he knows…" Mismatched eyes opened a sliver, staring at the dark mirror in front of him. Even in the dark, the bassist instinctively knew where to put the knife, how to move it and how not to move it – but he wasn't sure at all how to react to what had just happened in regards to the singer. Murdoc knew 2-D and Russel had their own little ideas about what the bassist did behind the closed doors of his Winnebago, but there was never an real, actual proof that the two bandmates could use. But now that Murdoc had bled on 2-D, there was no way…no way…

"Sweet Satan," the bassist murmured, lifting a shaking hand from the left wrist. He managed to somehow grab the knife again and pressed it to the inside of his skin, willing himself to slice downward, downward, downward – and just end it all, just end the pain that he knew was coming and end the shattered look that 2-D would give him once the Satanist worked up the nerve to be seen around the Studios again. But, like always, he slashed horizontally – across, across, across.

He grimaced deeply, slowly dragging the blade through his flesh, running through old scars and marks. He allowed himself a bitter, wild smile at the blood – the blood, the pain, the torture, the escape. Murdoc began to drift away from himself, merely observing the dark-haired Satanist slice his arm open, and feeling an ill emotion that he _enjoyed_ it so much. And then – there was a sharp intake of breath – but not from the bassist. Murdoc snapped back to himself, blinking dazedly in the direction of where the gasp had come from.

The lights were on, he realized.

And in the now-light of the room, the shattered look that he sought to escape started right back at him.

"M-Murdoc, I'm s-s-sorry," the singer stammered, his expression pure confusion and devastation. He turned and hastily exited through the doorway. Murdoc stared at where 2-D had left, then he turned back to his reflection in the mirror.

"Fuck," he hoarsely whispered to himself, clashing eyes shutting tightly as he deepened the darkened blade.


	7. Chapter 7

Murdoc stared at himself in the mirror, cutting deeply into his arm. "F-f-fuck," he hissed jerking the blade away quickly. That tore the sink a bit recklessly, and he flinched heavily, dropping the knife into the sink again. "This is wrong. Th-this is just…fuck it," he couldn't finish his thought, as a wave of pain suddenly seized his left arm. He clenched onto it with his right hand, closing his eyes tightly.

After a few moments, he opened his eyes and again settled their mismatched gaze on himself in the mirror. "Go…follow him…should I? Fuck it. I don't know what to do…for once in my fucking pathetic life…"

 _I don't know what to do._

 _I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked. I should have knocked_.

Murdoc pushed his way out of the loo after about a minute of cutting into his arm, punishing himself, trying to will himself to end everything. 2-D stood a little ways away, his back turned to the door, staring out the window. Murdoc felt a sudden pang of – was it guilt? He wasn't very adept at feelings that weren't anger-related. He had an urge to turn back around and never come out again, but that almost-foreign feeling of guilt won over the characteristic selfishness.

"2-D, are you okay?" he asked softly, trying to make his voice as gentle as possible. The last thing Murdoc wanted was for 2-D to go into shock and become a vegetable again. Then the bassist would have to go back to jail and there would be no band.

2-D spoke in a voice Murdoc had never heard him use before. It was – almost hollow sounding, "Yeah, I'll be fine…"

The bassist winced slightly, knowing the singer was lying. He leaned his back against the wall and slid down it to sit, elbows resting on upraised knees. Right hand clenched at the left wrist, tightly, to put pressure on the still-bleeding slashes. "I'm," he paused, unaccustomed to apologizing, "sorry you had to see that, I really am."

The keyboardist's back stiffened slightly. "No, i-it's fine," he murmured, "I'll Just take a bunch of painkillers… an' forget about it… not a big deal."

Murdoc started, "Y-you'll do what?" Since when did 2-D overdose to forget things? The bassist felt slightly ill, not entirely because of his bleeding wrist. "N-no, no, no,no-no, Stu-Pot. That's the last thing you should do, because then this'll bloody well happen again." 2-D nodded slowly, still not facing the Satanist. "Fuck, man… say something…"

After a slight hesitation, the vocalist responded, "I….I just don' understand why. I…but, I won't make you explain it, Murdoc. I don' understand, but I'll jus'…" he trailed off.

Mismatched eyes stared at the singer's back. That wasn't like 2-D. The dullard forgot about things, and dropped things easily, but something like that…."For fuck's sake, Sut-Pot…" at that point, Murdoc was seriously considering standing up, going back into the toilet and slowly cutting his hands off at the wrists.

"But the one fing I don't get is 'at I said, I said you could al-always talk to me, Murdoc," 2-D added, quietly.

"I know, 2-D. But I didn't need to," Murdoc said, equally-quite, "talk. I needed _that_." The singers shoulders twitched in what the Satanist assumed was a wince – was he really hurting that much over it? Murdoc started a little harder at 2-D's back, suddenly coming to the realization that the vocalist had been pointed in the other direction the entire time.

 _Sweet Satan, he can't look at me? Niccals, you've really fucked it up this time, haven't you?_ He thought to himself. A slight pause followed, after which the other side of his internal conversation squinted its proverbial eyes and said, _Wait. He can't look at you. He can'_ t look _at you. He_ can't _look at you. What the bloody hell does that mean, Niccals? Think about it. What could it possibly mean? He_ can't look _at you. Think about it, just for one second, you sorry old rocker._

Fuck me, he's crying, isn't he?  
"Stu-Pot, y-you're just going to have to bloody well get through this, man," Murdoc softly growled, trying to unsuccessfully harden his voice. "It'll screw up the band," he added, without thinking.

The vocalist's shoulders twitched again, Murdoc suddenly realized, through the slowly fading haze that came with self-punishment that it wasn't a wince at all; it was a sob. A sob. A fucking sob. Cutting off his feet at the ankles suddenly looked rather inviting to Murdoc as well. 2-D turned around – the bassist braced himself for the crying that was sure to be there – but the part of his hair that served as the closest things he had to bangs obscured his face. A tinge of unfamiliar guilt, as well as sickness, rose up in Murdoc's chest as he noticed that a small portion of the keyboardist's indigo was dappled with burgundy.

Bassist and singer remained facing each other in silence for a few beats. The latter of the two occasionally would reach up to brush back his almost-bangs, giving Murdoc a glimpse of blank eyes, staring at the ground, accompanied by what seemed to be glitter on his cheeks. The stillness was finally broken. "2-D," Murdoc said lowly, now trying his hardest to soften his voice, "why are you crying?"

The addressed turned back around again and Murdoc could tell he was rubbing frantically at his dulled eyes. 2-D turned around again, this time looking up – but his vacant gaze was focused on the wall above the bassists head. "I'm not," he said quietly.

Murdoc sighed, gingerly taking his right hand away from the opposite wrist He was fairly sure that the bleeding had calmed by then. "Why does it bother you so much?" he asked softly, clashing eyes still staring at 2-D. The bassist understood that the singer was somewhat shocked – and rightly so, that was a right shocking thing to barge in on, Murdoc supposed – but if he and Russel had their suspicions all this time, then what was the problem?

The keyboardist took a deep breath, apparently weighing his options. Murdoc waited; he actually had patience for once. "Because," 2-D mumbled, his voice growing fainter as he continued, "I'd rather if you took out all your anger on me than yourself." He really muttered the last four words or so, but Murdoc understood him perfectly. Understanding what he understood was a different thing entirely.

"What did you say?" the bassist asked, narrowing his eyes slightly, as if that would allow him to hear more effectively.

2-D shifted to look at Murdoc, but he closed his eyes. "I said, I'd rather if you took out your frustrations on me than yourself…"

"No you wouldn't. If I did, you'd be dead," Murdoc responded without hesitation, still staring. 2-D didn't answer to that, but he frowned slightly, his eyes still closed. "2-D," the bassist said slowly, "just promise me something. Never ever ever ever do what I do, alright? It's too hard to stop, too hard to live with. Do you understand me?" He knit his brow in a futile attempt to emphasize his point; 2-D still didn't have his eyes open anyway. "It's not a good habit," he added, silently chiding himself for being a hypocrite.

The singer's blank eyes fluttered open, watching the bandleader with an emotionless expression for a few beats. "Don't worry," he said, timidly smiling. "I won't, if you say so."

Murdoc felt a pang of anger – absolute, unbridled fury – at the vocalist's smile. It was the typical 2-D smile; full of sunshine, "I'm-content-with-the-world", nothing is wrong-type of smile. And the bassist felt an envious sentiment building up within him, because he was absolutely convinced he could never feel that way. He was too smart to be happy – because he thought so much; he knew all the shit that was out there in the world, preventing him from being happy. Since 2-D didn't think enough, he was naïve enough to the utter disgusting nature of human beings that he could feel that way – he _could_ smile. And Murdoc hated 2-D – more than he ever had in the entire five or seven years he had known the singer. He hated him more than anything, more than everything, for just a split second – until he realized that the smile was entirely pathetic. The vocalist was forcing it.

He was forcing it for Murdoc's sake.

 _He's…_

The Satanist nodded dumbly to 2-D, trying to stammer out a thank-you for promising that he wouldn't feel the need to engage in self-destructive acts to muddle through problems. A new feeling was rising in Murdoc's chest. Something he hadn't felt in years. "Th-thank y-y-y – f-fuck," he growled, standing and pushing his way back into the room where he had left his knife.

He was going to cry.

2-D stared after Murdoc as he fled back into the loo. _Well,_ he told himself, _at least he's talking to me…._

The singer shook his head slowly, trying to clear his thoughts. Whenever 2-D thought to hard, everything got jumbled up together in addition to the fog of painkillers, and that typically brought about a sever migraine. He walked across the hallway and settled himself against the wall, next to the door, where Murdoc had just been sitting. He slid down the wall, resting in a sitting position with his legs bent to either side, crossed at the ankles.

Feeling in need of a cigarette, the vocalist produced a pack of fags, but simply set it on one of his knees, becoming too distracted to pull one out. He frowned slightly, resting his attempted to meditate to calm himself down and to force back the emotions. The initial shock had disappeared by then, and he was suddenly left with an overwhelming feeling of – 2-D didn't even know the word for it. He felt depressed and useless and worried all at once, all at the same time, and he knew that he was going to start crying as soon as one more thought entered his head.

So,2-D sat, frowning, too stressed to even concentrate on meditation. Blank eyes closed, he simply tried to force back the tears, he continuously reappearing image of Murdoc slashing into his wrist, and what he thought was the bassist screaming – or sobbing- through the wall.

The noises behind him stopped after a few minutes, and the door to the toilet opened. 2-D heard Murdoc step out, heavy boots clunking on the floor. The singer blinked his eyes open, looking up to the bassist – who had seemingly been crying.

Unlike 2-D, the Satanist made no attempt to hide his emotion, as unused to it as he must have been. He sniffled faintly, rubbing absently at the lower lid of his right eye with the back of his palm. "I need a fag," muttered, sitting down in front of the door and immediately curling up onto his knees.

The singer's eyes widened and the tears he fought so diligently to hold back were seconds from spilling over. He'd never seen Murdoc cry before. Hands shaking, he set the pack of cigarettes between himself and the Satanist and curled up as well, pulling his legs up to his chest and burying his face in his knees. As he began to cry, everything around him went fuzzy and the fog of confusion moved forth to surround his addled mind, giving a welcome release from the outside world.


End file.
